


Peanut Butter and Jelly

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, potentially papa!strade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:33:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Lestrade has to take care of Sherlock, and make sure he actually eats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peanut Butter and Jelly

Sherlock wasn’t much for sleeping — but it did happen occasionally. He had a tendency to inopportunely doze off, although he hardly ever did it in a reasonable place. His preferred resting locations were limited to his favourite leather chair, and a worn, green sofa in Lestrade’s sitting room. For reasons inexplicable to science, both offered a unique and incomparable comfort that made his spontaneous napping almost worthwhile. 

And his sofa was exactly where Greg Lestrade found Sherlock when he returned home from work. Half past five, and the young consulting detective had curled up under a coat he’d no doubt snatched from the hall closet. A more sensible person might have just wandered into the bedroom and used the blankets — but Sherlock routinely wormed his way into Greg’s clothes for no better reason than he found the scent reassuring. 

Leaning over the back of the couch, Greg smiled and watched him sleep. Sherlock could be damned adorable when he wasn’t defensively trying to outsmart the world. If only someone could convince him to drop his guard a little more often during his waking hours. 

He reached out and brushed a stray curl out of the younger man’s face. It was enough to wake him, although Sherlock didn’t jump or even seem surprised to see Greg standing there. He looked up at the DI languidly, as if he was — for whatever reason — pleased to see him. 

“Mornin’, sleepyhead,” Greg said quietly. 

Sherlock grumbled, looking for all the world like a disgruntled and tired kitten. Greg chuckled. “Hardly,” he answered after a moment. 

“Hardly what?” 

The sleepy kitten sat up, and stretched slowly. “It is hardly morning. You’re here, and still in work attire, which plainly suggests that you’ve only recently come back. You rarely stay late or go out for drinks during the first three days of the we-” He stopped talking long enough to yawn. “Week. So it must be approximately five thirty in the evening.” 

“Must be,” Greg mused, looking positively charmed. 

Sherlock smirked.

“Or you could have been looking at the clock behind me.” 

His smirk melted into an unhappy pout. 

Greg reached out and playfully ruffled the hair he’d so dotingly coaxed back into place not five minutes before. “You’re up now. Hungry?” 

He was tempted to roll over and sulk, but the mention of food reawakened a bitter hunger that he’d been ignoring prior to falling asleep. Though he was loathe to admit it, he was starving. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to say anything. Lestrade could read his wants and wishes as clearly as Sherlock could read the creases in his shirt to know that he’d had a good day at work. “I’d say we should order take-out, but you’ve scared off all the local drivers… I don’t think anyone’s likely to deliver here again. I’d have to get everything sent to the office.” 

“Perhaps if they were less ineffectual.” 

“Yeah, if only they had a map of London and all the alleyways stored inside their heads.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable.” 

“You’re an impatient brat.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips, sunk down in the sofa and turned his back to Lestrade. The DI chuckled and reached down again, pulling the coat Sherlock had been using as a blanket up over his shoulders and gently tucked him into it. 

“You’re a bit too big for that, y’know.” But he shouldn’t have bothered — the consulting five year old had no intention of answering him. Greg was used to it. Hell, he was used to much worse from Sherlock — and took the younger man’s more petulant moments in stride. 

He retreated into the kitchen, and Sherlock — entertained by the DI’s indulgence of his little tantrum — closed his eyes. Cooking was a rambunctious affair — and despite its parity to chemistry — Sherlock had long since learned to restrict his involvement to eating the finished product. Besides, if he refused to move, there was a very good chance that Lestrade would bring the food directly to him — always a plus.

Greg didn’t disappoint. It took him a surprisingly short amount of time to come back with a plate in hand. Sherlock peered at him through one eye, keeping the other indignantly closed until he was certain that he was being presented with food. 

“What is it?” He growled. 

The DI flopped down on the open end of the sofa, setting the plate down on Sherlock’s hip as he reached for the remote. “Sandwiches,” he answered, flipping channels until he found a footie match. 

“What kind of sandwiches?” 

Greg grabbed the plate before Sherlock could wiggle enough to send it tumbling to the floor. “PB&J,” he answered, grinning. “Eat up, kid. You’ll like it.”


End file.
